Going Under
by Sandiane Carter
Summary: SPOILERS for Pandora. A post-ep story. For Laura, who begged me.
1. Chapter 1

_And it's peaceful in the deep,_  
><em> Cathedral where you cannot breathe,<em>  
><em> No need to pray, no need to speak<em>

'Never Let Me Go' - Florence + the Machine

* * *

><p>The car dives underwater and everything slows down, stops, her breath trapped in her lungs because of the brutal encounter with the seat belt, blood drumming in her ears. The sudden silence is broken by the gurgle of water slipping in; her head swivels and her hand spurts out to his, stops his frenetic attempt to roll down the window.<p>

"Castle. Stop. Stop." Her voice is too loud, foreign. It's a few seconds before he actually heeds her, and by then it's too late, water is already spilling inside, splashing and cold and too fast.

Castle's eyes stare at her like he's doubting her mental health. "Kate. We have to get out of here. Now."

Her thoughts are a jumble; she tries to order them, get past the shock of the pigeons and the bullet and Blakely's lifeless body crumbling to the ground. Her hand is still on his wrist and the warmth, the galloping beat of his pulse are too much. She lets go, gathers herself.

"No," she says. "They might be waiting for us to surface just so they can shoot us."

The writer's eyes darken; he obviously didn't think of that. The water pooling around her feet is freezing. She shivers, snags her arms around her waist. Her car is slowly sinking; the bottom must not be far now, but they haven't reached it yet.

"Still. Kate. We can't stay here."

You think so, Sherlock?

"Can you close the window?" she asks, desperate for time. She watches him try, but the water's pressure is too strong, and his efforts are in vain. He shakes his head, apologetic.

"Don't think so."

Probably won't make much of a difference. They'd run out of air quickly enough, anyway. She wonders which one is better - asphyxiation or drowning. Maybe a bullet in the head isn't so bad after all.

The front of the car hits the bottom of the water with a muffled thump, shaking them both; little by little, the Crown Vic goes back to a more horizontal position. The water is up to her knees now; she drags her legs up, tries to escape the ocean's cold, perverse kiss.

"Kate."

His voice is low, tense, thrumming with urgency. He's counting on her.

She looks at him, sees the barely contained panic in his blue eyes.

"We'll just wait until the last second before we get out. Hopefully they'll have given up by then." She tries to ignore the fact that "by then" probably means in two minutes' time, tops.

"How *are* we getting out?" he objects, face grim, teeth gritted but chattering anyway. Just like hers.

"Through the window? Pulling it down all the way?" Now that he's mentioned it, she's not even sure that it'll work.

"Think that'll work?" he echoes her thoughts, makes her wince.

Or maybe it's the water seeping through her clothes, licking at her waist.

"I don't know, Castle," she hisses. "It's not like I've tried this before."

"Oh no? You don't spend your free time running your car into the ocean and then trying to get out? I'm disappointed, Beckett."

She smiles a little, if only to reward his feeble attempt at a joke; but the dry chuckle she lets out turns into a moan when the waves rise up to her chest, sink into her bra, the sensitive skin of her breasts revolting again the icy bite of it.

Fuck. So cold. She closes her eyes and braces herself, pleads with her body. Just hold on a little longer.

"Kate."

She hears him reach out to unfasten her seat belt, grunting as he struggles with it, then letting out a slow breath as he pulls her out of her seat, closer to him. The water gets in the way, makes every move awkward, too slow; she barely feels his hands on her waist, but she can tell he's trembling too. All over. Oh God, they need to get out.

This was a stupid, stupid idea. She shouldn't have made them wait. She's not even sure she can swim now.

Oh, of course she can swim. She *has to*. Don't be stupid, Kate.

Flickering warmth at her temple; his breath, she realizes, the tantalizing glance of lips against her skin. The murmur of her name.

Enough. Enough of this. They have water up to their necks; they can't wait anymore. Kate unfolds a numb arm, reaches for the crank, gropes around before she manages to land her hand on it. Her position isn't so good; she's gonna have to go under.

"Castle?" she says, the two syllables unsteady with the force of her shaking. "Be ready to hold your breath."

She sucks in a lungful of air, and she dives in.

* * *

><p><em>No<em>.

The single syllable freezes on his lips; she's gone already.

Her dark hair pools in the water in front of him, sombre, twisting tentacles, not unlike the ones anxiety is knotting around his heart. There's barely any air left in the car; a few more seconds and the ocean will have claimed it fully.

And yet the window's not moving.

He has to smother the urge to go down and help her, because he can't, can't help; his hands are not needed. Would only get in the way. No room.

Come on, Kate. _Come on._

As if on cue, he feels the glass move under his fingers. Just an inch or two down before it stills again, but that's always a start. He tries not to worry about how well he'll fit through that window; time for that later.

Right now, this extra inch means the car is completely flooded; he only has a split second to absorb all the air he can, and then water's everywhere.

Fucking freezing water, too.

The window slides down some more - halfway there - again - and _again-_

His heart is beating out of his chest and he wonders, terrified, how much oxygen Kate's got left, because she's been underwater longer than him, has been pushing and pulling at the crank to roll down the window.

That takes effort.

And effort takes breath.

A long time ago - in a different life, really - he might have found this exciting. Danger and the rush of adrenaline, the not knowing whether you'll get out alive; fodder for the books, of course, but also an exhilarating experience.

He might have fancied himself the hero of some James Cameron movie, trapped at the bottom of the ocean, left to choose between hypothermia and drowning; might even have found it thrilling.

But no more.

Kate is all he can think of now, her name a drowned, frantic, silent prayer in his throat, with his wild heartbeat for an organ in the background.

The window slides open all the way.

* * *

><p>She's almost out of air when she manages to bring down the crank again, the space wide enough at last to let both of them out. Immediately she feels Castle's hands on her, or what she thinks to be his hands, a strength pulling her up, pushing her through.<p>

Her body is frozen solid, a compact, rigid thing, and she couldn't resist even if she wanted to.

She doesn't want to. Black is tunneling into her vision and every movement is agony, which is strange, since she barely feels anything but the cold.

The cold. The cold isn't so bad anymore.

It's caressing and sweet, gentle arms enveloping her, cradling her; and all around the lovely stretch of silence. So peaceful.

She closes her eyes.

* * *

><p>Something's wrong.<p>

She should be swimming up to the surface, not lingering outside the car. Not waiting for him. _Stupid, Beckett._

Castle clumsily wriggles his hips through the window, relief spreading when he does make it out, the buoyancy of the water helping. His foot catches on the door and he struggles to set it free, body too heavy, too slow. Taking too much time.

Air. He needs air.

He yanks his ankle loose, a dizzy sense of triumph buzzing in his ears, quickly crushed when he turns to Kate's unmoving form.

Despair swirls through him, grants him one more precious moment of clarity. All he needs.

He grabs her, hooking an arm around her neck and letting his fingers curl under her opposite armpit, and he pushes himself off the bottom, scraping together all the strength he can find in his quitting body.

Daylight shimmers above him, so appealing. So far away.

Kate.


	2. Chapter 2

_And it's over,  
><em>_And I'm going under  
><em>_But I'm not giving up-  
><em>_I'm just giving in_

'Never Let Me Go' - Florence + the Machine

* * *

><p>He's not sure how he gets them out, but he does, he does, and the first lungful of air that he gulps leaves a trail of fire down his throat.<p>

He disregards it, all his attention, all his care directed at the woman he's holding close, her long, lithe body against him, weightless.

"Kate," he gasps, begs, terror eating at his heart even though the immediate danger has passed.

He doesn't even glance at the pier; if someone's waiting to shoot them, then they will. Nothing he can do to prevent it.

"Kate," he whispers again, imperious.

_Wake up. Talk to me._

She's so pale. Her face is a sickening white; _cadaveric_, his writer's brain murmurs, but the man in him revolts at the thought.

He thinks he can feel her heart beating, a faint, sluggish thing under his forearm - he's crushing her to him, couldn't loosen his grip if he wanted to - but there's no way to be sure, not until he gets them out of the water. His legs are numb and movement is awkward, painful; he's not stupid enough to think he can last much longer.

The dock is close, and it seems deserted. At least there's that. He starts swimming that way, every stroke sending liquid fire through his veins, itching, burning, tearing through the cloak of ice wrapped around his limbs.

The sun is still shining, pale beams that touch the water shyly, lend their soft glow to the waves. The day looks untouched, looks the same, cold and quiet. No trace of what happened on Pier 32.

And he's ready to bet that Blakely's body has vanished as well.

That's the last of his concerns, though, he realizes as he reaches the edge of the pier, his stomach sinking.

It was designed for boats to berth here. Not human beings. The platform is too high for him to reach. Let alone hoist himself up. Or her.

Shit.

His eyes eagerly follow the line of the docks, hoping for steps; but the closest thing is a metallic ladder, a few meters away. He can try.

Despite the water, despite Kate's slenderness, she feels heavier and heavier against him; the effort it takes him to get them both at the bottom of the ladder robs him of his last illusions.

There's just no way he's getting both of them up there.

He needs her help.

He needs his partner.

* * *

><p>Light.<p>

She chokes and gasps and struggles awake - chest too tight, hurts, _hurts_ - the air scorching her lungs like some foreign body that she is no longer used to. What the-

She coughs up salty water until her eyes are blurred with tears, until her throat stings with it; at some point she becomes aware of Castle's strong arm crushing her ribs, of his lips at her ear.

The warm, reassuring rumble of his voice soothes, gentles, brings her back to him.

But oh-

"Burns," she croaks out, wincing with every expansion of her chest, insides raw and pulsing.

"I know, Kate, I know. I'm sorry," he murmurs, his mouth brushing random places that he stumbles upon, temple, cheekbone, chin. She lets him, disoriented, dizzy, jaw clenched against the polar circle of her body.

He's shaking too, she realizes, and not the good kind. She can feel the large frame of his body at her back, but the lack of warmth is unnatural. She shifts in his embrace, half-turning to him.

Why are they still in the water?

"You got us out of the car," she says. He must have done it - she doesn't remember, and yet they're here. Alive.

Freezing, but alive.

He nods briefly. "They're gone, Kate. No one - no one on the pier," he tells her, teeth chattering. God, he looks exhausted.

"Good," she says, vaguely conscious that he's trying to get somewhere with this, and her sluggish brain isn't following.

"So let's get up there, yeah?" he asks, nodding at the ladder she didn't really notice before.

Oh. A ladder. Okay.

Only six rungs. Six rungs is nothing, right?

"You go first," he says, and for a second she's tempted to argue, because he looks so completely drained, and because she doesn't want to make a fool of herself (which will undoubtedly occur, considering the very little control she has over her stiff limbs).

She can't tell where her jeans end and her skin begins.

But Castle's eyes are a resolute blue, and she swallows her protests, turns to the first rung.

Realizes in horror that she's going to have to lift herself up, because the ladder starts well above the water.

Just getting an arm out, curling her fingers around the rusty metal, takes entirely too much time. She shakes her head, defeated.

"Castle, I-"

"You can," he opposes quietly, firmly. "You can, Kate. I'll help. Come on."

Tears well up in her chest, weariness and frustration both; she shoves them down ruthlessly, hoists her other hand up there.

She can.

* * *

><p>He watches her carefully, his bones stiff and weary but his eyes alert, his hands ready to catch her. As long as he focuses on her, as long as he has Kate Beckett to care for, he can keep the cold at bay.<p>

Or at least try to ignore it.

Sliding her knee onto the first rung is a painstaking enough process, but replacing her knee with her foot is even worse. Seems to take hours.

He can feel the irritation radiating off her in waves, and as far as he's concerned, it's a good thing. It means she's alive and conscious, means that she has enough energy to care. He couldn't ask for more.

She should have taken off her boots, he thinks fleetingly, but realistically, he knows it wasn't an option. The leather sticks to her calves like a second skin; it will probably be painful as hell to get them off.

Her foot skids once, twice. He's there every time, hand clawing on her leg, keeping it against the ladder. The second time, she hits her knee, hard, and hisses in pain. Despite the hint of anger in the sound, it's too much like a whimper for him to be comfortable.

"Come on, Beckett," he urges, mustering all the authority he can, hoping she will respond to her last name.

"Shut up," she replies half-heartedly, but she does haul herself up; only one rung left-

And she's up on the pier, finally, finally safe. Safe. Relief sends fireworks flying behind his closed lids.

"Your turn, Castle," she growls, and he opens his eyes again, tries to shake himself.

Right. Ladder.

Agony threads through his muscles as he tries to hike himself up, and he suddenly understands why it took her so long to get a feet onto the rung. His articulations seem like they've forgotten how to bend; he wonders briefly if his body was ever made to do this.

And he's too heavy; he'll never manage-

"Come on, Rick. Think of Alexis stumbling upon your frozen body. Gotta keep that from happening, don't we?"

"You sure know how to cheer a man up, Beckett," he pants back, but he has a good grip on the metal now, and he pulls, pulls, gaining inches as he loses breath.

He's going to have to slow down on the pizza and the carbonara pasta. _No more pizza_, he promises himself through the burn in his chest, the buzz of exhaustion in his ears.

Kate's voice guides him, encourages him, threatens him all through his way up; he loses track of time, would be utterly unable to say how long it took when he finally gets to put his hands on the concrete of the dock.

Of course, he decides to skip the last rungs and just hoist himself up; of course, his drenched shoe skips and he sways backwards, owes his salvation only to Beckett's quick reflexes.

She grabs his shirt with an iron fist (it freaking _hurts_), yanks him back to her with all her strength; they both stumble onto the pier, and she lands on her back.

He lands on top of her, breathless, shocked.

"You always need to draw attention to yourself," she jokes feebly after a few seconds, a ghost of a smirk on her lips.

The panic hasn't completely faded from her eyes, though.

"Sorry," he says inanely, noticing the blue, pulsing vein that runs down the column of her neck.

A beautiful place to kiss.

He leans in and presses his mouth to it, gratitude and swirling relief and a burst of feeling that he cannot contain.

"Castle," she says softly, and he can't decipher it, can't tell weariness from reproach, hesitation from pleasure. Her skin is so cold, like marble, in spite of all the exertion. It scares him.

He rolls off her, but remains sprawled on his back next to her. Just the thought of sitting up is exhausting.

"Can you feel your body at all?"

Some parts of him hurt, but most of him is silent, and he knows that the quiet bits are the ones he should be worried about.

"Some," she hedges, her eyes closed.

He looks at her critically, all long limbs and graceful lines, nothing to shield her from the cold.

"Kate, we need to get help."

She hums. "In a minute, Castle."

In a minute they'll be asleep. Not good. He tells her so, gets a flash of glaring green eyes.

She curls onto her side, nestles against him, fingers splayed on his ribs; he wishes he could feel that.

"Just a minute," she says, in that tone that forbids all contradiction. Her lashes flutter down her cheeks, black against white. She looks so young.

He gives in.

Just a minute.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he wakes, he's in an ambulance.

He has a strong feeling of deja-vu, but at least this time it's not Doctor Motorcycle Boy's face that greets him.

"Sophia," he rasps.

"Hey, Rick." She holds out a glass of water for him; Castle drains it, his throat as dry as parchment.

He sits up too fast; his head swims, and he has to catch himself on the edge of the gurney. There's a blanket wrapped around him; it slides down his shoulders, and he realizes his chest is bare underneath.

Sophia secures it back into place with a smile, while a young, red-haired paramedic explains, "We took off most of your clothes; they were drenched and we had to warm you up. But we have some scrubs, if you want."

He's already wearing scrub pants, he sees when he looks down. He can't focus; his brain is refusing to work, is pulled in too many directions for any of it to make sense. Darkness keeps trying to creep in at the edges.

Sophia is talking, saying something about hypothermia and how he has to look after himself. _I know that already_, he wants to say, but then he'd have to explain and he doesn't really want to.

Seems like the CIA found them in time, anyway. He wonders if Ryan and Esposito will be disappointed that they didn't get to play rescuers this time. Ryan and Esposito-

Kate.

"Where's Kate?" he asks, a sudden and terrible clarity descending upon him.

"She's in the other ambulance," Sophia answers, her tone much too nonchalant if you ask him. "She'll be fine, Rick. Now, about Blakely-"

"I want to see her." He rises to his feet as he says the words, finds his legs to be weak, unsteady things. He staggers, bumps into the medic, then sways into the wall.

Ow. Hurts.

"Rick," Sophia says in a gentle, scolding voice.

He disregards her.

Moving more slowly so as to give his body time to adapt, to deal with the sudden flurry of movement, he makes his way out of the ambulance, step by step, wincing when the cold air hits the bare spots that the blanket isn't covering.

The other ambulance is parked close, thank God, and he doesn't have far to go. There's a CIA agent and a paramedic in the way, but he skirts them, gets inside, heart thumping in his chest in the most ridiculous way. Sophia said she was fine-

Oh. And she is. She is.

Kate.

His heart quiets.

She's lying on a gurney, still unconscious, tucked in a blanket similar to his; her dark hair is a tangle around her pale face, but she's here, she's breathing. She's okay.

Ignoring the medic's glare, he falls to her knees next to her, runs his thumb over the line of her cheekbone.

"You in love with her?"

He didn't realize Sophia had followed him, but it's definitely her voice, this easy blend of mild curiosity and amusement. Like nothing can touch her, nothing deserves her full interest.

He used to find that sexy, back when he was writing his first Derrick Storm novel, but now it only annoys him. Even though he knows it for what it is - defense mechanism.

"Yes," he answers absentmindedly, the truth escaping him as he drinks in the sharp angles of Kate's profile, the faint tinge of pink that has spread back over her cheeks, the dark stroke of her lashes.

Sophia shifts behind him, in surprise maybe, or something else. He doesn't know, doesn't care.

"Does she know?" his old flame asks, and she sounds genuinely interested now, no longer sarcastic. It makes him soften a little.

He palms Kate's cheek, caresses the beauty mark under her left eye.

"I think she does," he answers after a moment.

He's pretty sure, in fact. She never meets his eyes when she says that she doesn't remember.

Sophia makes a little pensive sound.

"And?"

And what? What does she expect?

"It's complicated," he hedges, and even he can hear the unhappiness in his own voice. Damn it, Castle.

He should do a better job of hiding it. This only concerns him and Kate; Sophia has nothing to do with it.

"Complicated? How so?"

He can tell from her voice that she's smiling, and he hates it.

"Either she loves you back, or she doesn't," the CIA agent points out. "Not many possibilities here, Rick."

But there are. She may love him back, and not be ready.

He can't quite face the other alternatives.

And anyway, he doesn't want to be having this conversation with Sophia. Sophia is not his girlfriend, and whatever Kate might say, she never was.

She was fun, yes, a pleasant distraction; she was a wealth of knowledge about the CIA, procedures and secret codes, and all that wrapped in a nice package.

He respects her, even admires her; he was never in love with her.

Kate is none of her business, and so he reluctantly steps away, fingers lingering on his partner's jaw, tries to focus back on the case.

"So. Blakely."

* * *

><p>It's ten at night and she should be home, curled in her couch with one of his books. They saved the world again; or if not the world, at least the United States. They saved the world and she should be home.<p>

She shouldn't be standing at his door.

But.

She heard him. Of course she did.

She was swimming back to consciousness, all of her rising to the caress of his hand on her cheek, when the other voice intervened. Sophia, she realizes now, though her brain was only confusion at the time.

She kept her eyes shut, and she listened. And she heard.

It's nothing she hasn't heard before, really, and all things considered, an ambulance gurney after almost drowning probably constitutes an improvement from the green grass of a bright-lit cemetery, with your blood rushing out of your chest.

It's not that she's shocked. It's not that she's surprised.

She knows. She's known. No matter what she's told him.

But hearing his soft-spoken, willing admission - no grand declaration this time, just a simple answer, _yes_, to a simple question (_Are you in love with her?_) - does something to her nonetheless, tears her chest wide open, forces her to look.

_Take a good look, Kate._

Look at what is there.

And this is why, now that the case is over, now that they've joked and made light of it over drinks at the Old Haunt, she finds herself standing, immobile, at the door of his loft.

It's ten at night and she should be in her tub, drinking wine.

It's ten at night and since the last time she saw him, two hours ago, blue eyes crinkled into a smile as they parted ways in front of his bar, she hasn't been able to think about anything else.

Just him.

Kate breathes, deep and slow, presses her lips together as she looks up at his door.

_Just do it._

She raises her hand and knocks.

* * *

><p>He's not expecting her exactly, but since he's been daydreaming about her for the last hour or so, he's not surprised to find her here either.<p>

"Beckett."

He opens the door wider, steps aside to let her in.

The soft light of the loft catches in her hair, shines off the tumble of curls. He loves it when she wears her hair down.

Kate steps forwards, then pauses, chewing on her bottom lip as she looks at him.

"You alone?"

He tries to keep the surprise off his face. Tries to keep the hope off his heart.

_Don't get carried away._

"Hum, yeah," he answers. "Alexis is out, at a movie with a couple friends, and Mother is-"

He flicks his hand in the air to indicate that he doesn't know, and it's probably better this way. Her mouth curves a little, almost a smile, as she nods.

He turns to close the door, breathless, hating himself for it.

"Do you want me to-"

He was going to say _take your coat_, but she's already throwing it over the arm of the couch. Her movements are a little jerky, like she's-

Nervous.

It's making him nervous in turn.

"Wine?" he offers, has to clear his throat when his voice comes out a little too high-pitched.

But she doesn't even laugh or say anything; she simply shakes her head, looks at him.

"Castle."

Oh God. Oh God. He doesn't know why she's here, but he doesn't like that solemn look on her face, the firm line of her mouth, the resolution in it. Maybe he shouldn't have let her in after all. The case was intense, and his feelings are too raw. Too close to the surface.

He's not sure he can deal with Kate and their conversations tonight, the layers of meaning riddled in them. Not sure he can pretend he doesn't care.

He cares too much.

She seems to understand his reluctance, sighs and tilts her head, studying him.

"You were right," she says after a second, her smooth voice breaking the silence that coats the loft

He was right.

About what?

"I'm - very pleased to hear that," he answers carefully, and there's definitely a glint of amusement in her eyes when he says it. "But, uh. It would be even better if I knew what was I right about?"

She presses her lips together but keeps looking at him, doesn't shy away. Such determination in her green eyes, and some uncertainty too - it only makes her more beautiful. More human.

"What you told Sophia. That you thought...you thought I knew."

That he thought she knew-

Oh. _Oh._

"You were awake," he says, not really a question, more like a way of skirting the real issue, the meaning behind her words. He's stunned with it, speechless.

She knows.

"Yes," she answers simply. No flourishes around it, no apology; none is needed.

What did he tell Sophia again? Oh. That he thought she knew; that it was complicated. Okay, good. Good. He can work with that.

"So." He hesitates. "You knew...before my conversation with Sophia." He suspected as much, really, has suspected as much for a long time, but he would still like to hear her say it.

"Yes," she says, a single breath charged with such relief. Her eyes darken, though, something like regret pooling in them. "I'm sorry, Castle."

Ah.

It doesn't come as a surprise, but it still hurts a little. More than a little?

He's not sure what to do now.

As if she senses that, she takes the lead, offers him more. "I was...angry with you, Castle."

Angry. "You had good reason to," he makes himself say, remembering the fight at her apartment, her heartbreaking cries, half-hearted struggle as he carried her out of that hangar.

"Not-" she looks away with a soft, frustrated sound, worries her lip. "Not about the case," she says after a moment. "I know why you did what you did."

Well at least there's that. They never talk about Montgomery, and sometimes - he wonders.

"I was angry with you," she starts again, painfully slow in choosing her words, "because you sprung that on me at the worst possible time."

_That_ being his feelings, uh? His love. He thinks maybe it deserves a little better than a vague demonstrative, but he's not going to argue over language matters.

"You were dying a little bit," he objects, trying to be light even though his chest squeezes and twists at the very thought. "Timing might not have been my, uh, first concern."

She arches an eyebrow at him. "I noticed, Castle. And that's kind of my point. I *was* dying. And utterly unprepared to face an impromptu love confession."

He wants to ask if she's better prepared now, but it's probably not the best idea.

"So. I was mad at you for making me face it anyway, and I didn't want to deal with it. That's why I ignored it, pretended I didn't remember."

Yeah, he figured as much.

_Listen to what she isn't saying._

"But... not anymore?" he inquires tentatively.

Kate lets out a long breath, stares into his eyes.

"No."

He should dance with joy at that, should go to her and crush her in his arms, hold her to his chest and never let go; and yet all he wants is to understand.

"Why?"

She smiles, something bittersweet that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Sophia wasn't wrong," she admits, and he can see how much it costs her to say the words.

Except he has no idea what she means. Seems to be a recurring situation tonight.

She must read his confusion on his face, and she explains, albeit uncomfortably. "It's not...that complicated. And you deserve an answer, Castle."

Oh. Wait. What?

No.

No. No no no. He takes a step back in panic, averts his eyes. He doesn't need an answer. Nope. He can wait. He'll wait. He doesn't need - he can't take it if she says-

Her fingers splay on his cheeks, palms kissing the sides of his jaw, cool and soft, appeasing. He remembers to breathe, meets her eyes unwillingly. They're green, wide pools, liquid certainty staring at him.

"Do you trust me so little?" she murmurs.

He opens his mouth to answer - answer what, he has no idea - but before he can get any words out her tongue is sliding in, a gentle intrusion, elusive and light. Taunting. He kisses her back, tries to savor it, to get past the shock of her cold lips against his, the curl of her mouth, the smile she doesn't try to hide.

It's dazzling and dizzying, and it ends too soon.

Yet she lingers, presses her forehead to his cheek, kisses his jaw, the side of his neck.

If it's a dream, he never wants to wake up.

"I love you too, Castle," she whispers in between kisses, and it's not even the words that undo him, melt his heart in his chest - it's the way her voice catches in her throat, raspy with emotion, dark and rich. Beautiful.

Kate.

"I love you, I love you," he hears, and he can no longer tell which one of them is speaking the words.

Not that it matters.


End file.
